


Strangers and Monsters

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Branded/Marked as Property, Character wanted it but not like this, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Tim had meant to meet Danny alone, to fight alone, to die alone. But Martin always had to interfere.





	Strangers and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arazsya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/gifts).



Martin shouldn’t have interfered. 

That was always how it went with Martin, though. Sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted, always trying to _help_ , to make things right. So Tim shouldn’t have been surprised that Martin followed him to the meeting. He wasn’t surprised. In the end, he wasn’t even angry. 

“What are they going to do to us?” Martin’s voice was high with fear, and he was warm where he pressed against Tim’s side. The closet wasn’t big, but he still didn’t need to be this close. 

But then Tim could hardly blame him, not when he wasn’t pulling away.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re just preparing a spot of tea, with some lovely biscuits and scones with jam. Maybe they’ll even throw in some fresh clotted cream. And then we’ll have a nice chat, and they’ll send us on our way.”

“It’s not funny.” 

Tim felt Martin stir next to him. Crossing his arms like a child, probably. Well, tough. 

“Sometimes things don’t go how you want, and in our world, that means being horribly murdered by monsters. Or worse.”

“What could be worse? I—no. Stupid question. I know.”

“Glad we’ve settled that then.”

Despite it all, Tim had to admit, it could be worse. He’d certainly rather be stuck here with Martin than Jon. At least Martin was easy enough to shut up. And the monsters probably wouldn’t feel any need to go on about how Martin was special. He wasn’t one of them, after all. Still human. For now.

“Tim—”

He groaned, and hoped his clear disdain for conversation would stop Martin. But when he was in a mood, Martin could be a stubborn bastard.

“You knew one of them. It was your brother, wasn’t it?”

Seconds passed. Tim thought about not answering. But whatever Martin might have done, might not have done when Tim desperately needed it, he still deserved to know. Not that knowing was likely to do him much good. In the end, knowing stuff really was a pretty shit power.

“It was.”

For a minute, there was only the sound of breathing, and a slight shuffling as Martin moved his foot, trying to get comfortable in the cramped confines of the closet. Maybe he’d drop it for once.

“Are you okay?”

The question threw him. It shouldn’t have. It was a very Martin question, after all. Are you okay, do you need a cup of tea, perhaps you should lie down? All that kind, caring bollocks he liked to pretend helped. And yet. Once, Tim had desperately wanted him to ask that. And if they were going to die here, then maybe he wanted to answer.

“No, Martin. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for a long time. And seeing Danny…” Fuck, he couldn’t cry. Not in front of Martin. “I thought he was dead. I thought even if it was his skin, even if these freaks had that, I’d know he was just a monster in a mask. I’d know, and I’d want to kill it, and that’d be it. But I was stupid, and they got to me.” He’d looked so much like Danny. “I fucked up.”

“So you think you failed. But it’s not stupid, and you didn’t fail. You hesitated because you still love him, even if he’s…different. Loving someone isn’t a bad thing.”

Only Martin would use ‘different’ to mean your brother had been skinned and worn as a coat. Like he’d just gotten into some weird hobbies, or tried out a new fashion. But then Martin would want to see the best in a monster.

“Loving a monster is bad. The only thing you should do with one is kill it, before it can kill you. And you’ve been at the Institute too long if you can’t see that.” In a quieter voice he added, “We both have.”

A rustle of clothing, and Martin’s hand wrapped around his. It was slightly damp with sweat, and not entirely pleasant, clenched too tight and the angle awkward, forcing their fingers to mesh uncomfortably, bone grating against skin. Tim should’ve shoved the gesture away. Yesterday, he would’ve. But in the dark…

Damn Martin. The worst thing about him was that sometimes, he was right.

-

Time was hard to measure, stuck in that dark closet. They’d both dozed on and off, but Tim was starting to discover the worst thing about being kidnapped might be boredom. Particularly when he only had Martin to talk to, and they’d long gone through all potential small talk. Which meant Martin just had to bring out the prying questions.

“What did you imagine your life would be like? Before, well, everything.” 

“Does it matter? Knowing my luck, I would’ve been eaten by a monster anyway. Looks like I’ll finally be able to do that, get it crossed off my bucket list.” Or worse, though he wasn’t not sure how much worse it could get. 

“You know, you could just answer the question. We’re probably not getting out of here anyway.” 

And damn him, Martin sounded so despondent that Tim couldn’t help it. With a sigh, he slung an arm over Martin’s shoulder, and tugged him closer. And tried to remember what he’d done before. How things had been when they were still friends, and Martin was panicking about worms, and they thought Jane Prentiss was the worst they had to fear.

“I thought about settling down. Finding someone, starting a family. Maybe getting a dog. Normal, boring stuff. I mean, for God’s sake, Martin, I worked in publishing. I was never all that interesting.” That was always Danny, he almost added, but the words stuck in his throat. Some things were better left buried. 

“I think it sounds nice,” Martin said. “With my mum, I never really had time to think about it. I was always worrying about her.” He titled his head, and Tim felt the faintest brush of hair against his cheek. “It ruined most of my attempts at relationships, and I could never afford a pet. But I think I’d want something similar. It sounds nice.”

It was stupid. Stupid, and impossible. Even if they did somehow get out of here, they were never escaping the Institute. It was die now, die later, or if they were really lucky, turn into the same monsters they’d once feared. Tim almost said it. Ruined Martin’s happy little dream. If they were still at the Institute, he would’ve in a heartbeat. 

But here in the dark, it was different. Here in the dark—

“If you got a dog, what would you name it?”

In the dark, he felt Martin smile.

-

When Tim woke up, the closet was still dark, and Martin was gone.

His immediate reaction was resignation. After all, it made sense. They’d both be torn apart by monsters. Skinned, probably. Martin first, and him next, and if he were lucky, maybe he’d take one of them with him. Not much else to be done. 

His second reaction, far sharper than he’d ever have expected, was regret. Because Martin drove Tim mad. His defense of Jon, despite how little Jon deserved it. His passivity in the face of the horrors they faced. His endless, stupid tea, like he was trying to glue the back together with it, and didn’t realize that tea didn’t bloody work that way. But Martin, he was nice, even when he was incredibly irritating. And he hadn’t done a thing to deserve this. 

So when the door swung open, he was ready. In his hand, he clutched a shard of glass he’d picked up when he’d smashed a bottle of mystery liquid he’d been careful not to touch. Only a few steps to the door—

It shut, and locked with a firm click. He knelt down, feeling for what’d been left behind, and his hand encountered something wet, almost sticky. He instinctively recoiled, scrambling back and falling against a shelf. Except…it didn’t smell like blood or brains or whatever foul concoction these creatures could come up with. Instead it was faintly appetizing. He crawled forward, and brought his nose as close as he dared. Banoffee pie, his favorite. Danny had always—

“No.” He shoved the pie away, and turned his back on the door.

The hours passed slowly, in the dark. He slept on and off, not sure how long. His phone had been taken when they’d been captured, and who wore a watch these days? At some point, the banoffee pie had been replaced with curry chips. He and Danny had always fought over them as kids, gobbling them down in a race to see who could eat them first. And then mince pies with a hunk of Wensleydale, like their mum at served at Christmas. None of it a proper meal, and all things only Danny would know.

But Danny was dead.

He tried to remember that, even as he broke down and ate the food, too hungry and not quite stubborn enough to resist. Danny was dead, and whatever memories that monster had, it didn’t matter. He just needed something else to focus on. Martin, what had happened to Martin? Could he convince Danny to bring him back? It seemed like he was trying to appease Tim, or even _please_ Tim. If he told Danny he wanted Martin, really wanted him, more than anything, then maybe Danny would give Martin to him.

The thought made him sick. Not because Martin was that bad. In their early days working together, before Martin had starting mooning over Jon, he’d even considered it. That it might be nice, dating someone like Martin, who probably did silly romantic things, like bringing flowers, or leaving chocolates stashed in your desk. And who definitely wrote horrendous poetry, but it was sweet regardless. 

His head fell back against the wall with a thunk. Nice to think about now, what could’ve been. And hey, he was probably more of Martin’s type now anyway. He seemed to go for colossal assholes. Pity they both worked for an eldritch abomination, almost certainly intent on world domination.

Pity they were unlikely to survive.

“I really miss Martin,” Tim said, voice cracking from disuse. He cleared his throat, continued. “I always really liked him.” Not true, but what were a few more lies? “I thought we could really make it work, you know? Be happy together.” If not for the fact neither of them would likely be happy again, if they even survived. “Having him here with me, it’d be really special. He’s really my favorite person.” The words caught in his throat, and he almost laughed. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. He was certainly Tim’s favorite person here. 

He put his head in his hands, and took a shaky breath. This was so fucked up. But if it saved Martin…

“I think I might even love him.” 

-

For days, he was ignored beyond the routine gifts of food. But he continued to talk about Martin, giving the funny anecdotes from the early days. The dreadful yet oddly compelling poetry that Tim had listened to more than he’d admit. That silly biscuit game they’d used to play with Sasha. The time Martin had brought a dog into the Archives, and Jon had threatened to skin him alive. And all of it drenched in blood and horror. The poetry taped, probably just another offering to the bastard that owned them. Sasha long gone, and wiped from Tim’s memory. And Jon’s dramatic threat looking far too real now. 

But Tim kept talking, even as his voiced rasped in his throat, the water they provided not enough for his monologue. He’d hated Martin sometimes, for how little attention he paid to Tim, how easily he excused Jon. How he refused to blame Jon, refused to fight Elias, refused to give a damn. Passively rolling over and showing his belly, because all it took was a few harsh words, and Martin started lapping up the bullshit. 

He sighed, and let his head thunk back against the wall. Not like he’d been much better, had he? Not for a long time. Until Martin had given him that lead. Fuck, he’d given up. And now…

When they’d been taken, he’d seen Danny, his hair perfectly combed and his smile almost like Tim remembered. He’d had a knife. He should’ve slit the creature’s throat. Removed the head from the body, and let the stuffing spill out onto the muddy ground. It wasn’t human, wasn’t Danny, wasn’t the brother he loved. 

If the door opened, he’d take his chance.

-

Danny came a few days later, and his smile was wider than before. 

“I have a surprise for you. I really hope you’ll like it.”

His arm slithered around Tim’s waist, all curves and too smooth skin. He leaned into the touch anyway, and gagged at the smell. As they stumbled into the hallway, Tim squinted down at the floor, and marked the blood stains there.

“Martin.” He didn’t know why he asked anymore. He didn’t know why he cared. “What did you do with him?”

Danny smiled. “I told you, it’s a surprise.” 

The shard of glass pressed against the palm of Tim’s hand, marking him. When it hit the floor, it barely made a sound.

-

The new room was better, and worse. It had a bed, a full one, with a plush duvet, feather pillows and an elaborate wrought iron frame. The attached bathroom was clean enough, with a large shower, and even toiletries provided. He’d almost dropped the shampoo bottle when he read the label, his stomach lurching as he squirted it onto his hand. It was his favorite kind. Of course it was. 

One day passed, then another, and the surprise never came. Tim should probably be grateful at being left alone, beyond the food slid through a rough approximation of a flap at the bottom of the door. Hell, he should probably work on plotting his escape. The room had no windows, and the lock on the door seemed firm. But with the right tools, maybe he could gouge out the lock. 

But he didn’t. And why would he? Running hadn’t worked before. 

Mostly he slept, and tried not to think. Tried to forget the dreams that played again and again, of circus clowns and the terror in Danny’s eyes. Or the other dreams, where Martin came back, alive and somehow free, and so happy see Tim. He blushed, and hesitated, and of course Tim had to make the first move, tugging Martin to him, running hands through his hair, kissing him, and then dragging him down to the bed. 

And why Martin? Just because he’d fit into some stupid idealized future Tim had lost ages ago? Or was it the loneliness finally getting to him, his brain supplying the last human he’d seen, the last one he’d touched, and drawn comfort from at the press of their shoulders. And who was dead, had to be dead, because if he wasn’t dead—

Sometimes, Tim preferred the clowns.

-

A week on, and the door opened.

“I’ve brought you a present.” The smile was Danny’s, but too wide, too loose. Like elastic stretched too far, so that it could no longer quite hold its original form. As Danny got closer, the smell of cloves filled the air. It once made him think of Christmas, and the mulled wine they’d sneak as kids. Now it made him want to wretch. 

“Please, Danny. Let me go.”

Danny’s frown was somehow even more grotesque than his smile. They said it took more muscles to frown than to smile. Tim wasn’t sure Danny had enough, anymore.

“I’m sorry, Tim. But this was the bargain I made with Miss Orsinov. And the present was already extra. I will owe her a favor.”

His face contorted into a grin, and he turned away, a spin that was almost human, but missing something, the transitions between his step and the swing of an arm, too fluid and jerky at the same time. He shoved the door open wider, and dragged something inside. 

Martin.

Tim rushed forward before he could think better of it, hands clenching around Martin’s shoulders. Wanting to pull him into a hug, but no. Martin was barely a friend. Just an ally, surrounded by strangers and monsters. 

“Aren’t you happy? I got you exactly what you said you wanted.” 

Ignoring Danny, he looked at Martin. His face was pale, but clean, as was his hair. So they’d let him bathe, or bathed him. A dirty sheet was draped around his shoulders, and he clutched it close, head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor.

“What did they do to you?” His hand slid from Martin’s shoulder towards his neck, and Martin stumbled back, sheet slipping to reveal a flash of bare skin. So they’d taken his clothes, and clearly done something to make him fear being touched. 

“Why don’t you unwrap him?” 

Martin did look up then, face unreadable. Not looking at Danny. Looking at Tim. And for a moment, Tim considered it. He remembered the dreams, and he wanted to see, wanted to know. But it’d never be like his dreams. It was a nightmare. And it was sick he’d even considered it.

“Later, Danny.” He needed to think of an excuse. “I want to check him over myself, first. Alone.”

The sigh that issued from Danny’s lips had more in common with the wheeze of dusty bellows than a human voice, and Tim shuddered at the sound. Now more than ever, he wanted Martin to talk, to babble inanely, it didn’t matter what about. He just had to hear him, to remind himself that this wasn’t normal, that Danny wasn’t normal. That he was normal. 

As the door clicked shut behind Danny, Tim turned back to Martin. He held out a hand, and to his surprise, Martin took it, sheet still clutched in his other. 

“You’re real,” he said. “I—I thought, I don’t know. I thought they were going to kill me, I know they were, but then something changed, and then…” He dropped Tim’s hand, and pressed his fingers to the back of his neck. “It’s sewn. I don’t know what it says. I don’t know why. Danny, he said, he said it was so everyone would know I was yours.”

So it had worked. Twisted and strange, and not what he’d wanted. Or exactly what he’d wanted.

“Let me see.” 

Martin turned dutifully, and Tim stepped closer. His hair was a little long, already in need of a cut before they’d been captured and worse now. He brushed it out of the way, and his stomach dropped when he read the words there, the embroidery floss threaded through Martin’s skin in dark, crooked letters. Horror, he should feel horror, and anger. And he did. He swore he did. But maybe this place was getting to him. Or maybe it was the Institute, finally sinking in. Because as he traced them, some part of him thrilled at what they said. About him, and about Martin.

“What is it? Please, Tim.”

“It’s sick,” he said, while his fingers lingered on Martin’s skin. “Our mum, she used to sew it onto our plush toys. So we didn’t fight over them, so we knew who they belonged to.” 

Martin waited with an eerie calm. He’d cried, Tim was sure. But his eyes were dry.

“It says ‘I belong to Timothy Stoker.’ I’m sorry, Martin. I’m so, so sorry.” And he was. But if this was what it took to keep Martin with him, so be it. 

Instead of the silence, or the cold calm, Martin laughed. A high, frightened thing, but a laugh nonetheless. 

“Could be worse, I supposed. At least it’s you.” 

Martin stepped away, and Tim couldn’t blame him. Absence made the heart grow fonder, but this was too much. And then he turned back, let the sheet drop, and pulled Tim into his arms, burying his face in Tim’s shoulder. When Tim’s fingers finally made their way to Martin’s neck, tracing the soft bumps and lines marring his skin, Martin just held him tighter.

-

After that, they were left alone. Food appeared at regular intervals, but the door remained sealed, and no one, not even Danny, came to visit. Probably off plotting the end of the world, which meant he didn’t have time for any pet projects. And that suited Tim fine.

But with Martin here…it was better, and worse. Once or twice they talked about escaping, threw around wild ideas, and plans they’d enact when Danny returned. But mostly, the conversations ended in a lingering silence. 

Tim wondered if Martin had begun to feel, as Tim had, that here at least no one pretended they weren’t prisoners. At least they were mostly left alone, no one insisting they do research, or worse, read statements. With Martin, it wasn’t even that bad. Tim listened to him babble about shows he’d watched, gossip from the Institute, anything that came to mind. Once, he’d even asked Martin about his poetry. It was as dreadful as he remembered, and yet…there was something to it. It left Tim with a sense that he was being watched, which he hadn’t felt since his capture.

He didn’t ask about the poetry again. 

At night, they shared the bed, the nights warmer than Tim had felt in a long time. It was stupid. Martin didn’t care, not really, except in the way he tried to care about everyone. But Tim was selfish, and Tim was alone. So he wrapped an arm around Martin, and let himself think that the brief sigh of contentment was for him. 

Their solitude was broken a week later, when Tim awoke to a cold bed, and Danny staring down at him. He sprung to his feet, reaching for Danny, fingers grasping dead, waxen skin, so unlike Martin’s. 

“Where is he?” Tim said. 

“You’re not really playing with him, are you?” Danny’s head shuddered, twisting to one side, then the other, trying to shake his head.

“What?” Despite his disgust, he tightened his hand. Maybe now, he could stop caring. Could tear away this thing’s flesh, the stranger pretending to be his brother.

“He’s not a collector’s item, to be put on a shelf,” Danny explained, like Tim was a small, stupid child. And hell, maybe he was. “He’s meant to be used. To be loved and cherished and and torn and broken and—”

“Stop,” Tim said, dropping Danny’s arm and wiping his hand on his shirt. “I just. Stop.”

“If you aren’t using him, then I can take him to the charity shop. And some other little boy or girl will love him.” 

A smile consumed his face, and Tim tried not to vomit at the site of broken teeth and a poorly stitched tongue. And the words, it was what their dad had always said, when Tim or Danny had outgrown a toy. It’d been a balm at the time, to think a precious old toy would find a new home. It wasn’t one now. 

“No, no. I’ll—I’ll use him.” Tim tried hard not to think of what Danny meant, tried not to think of all the times Martin had leaned close, and it’d taken everything in Tim not to reach out, and pull him closer, to press his lips against the words, to make Martin truly his.

“Oh good. I just took him to be fixed up, but I can return him now. Should I leave you to play alone?”

Fixed up. Oh god, what had Danny done now?

“Yes. Please. I—I want to play with him. Bring him to me.”

“Brilliant,” Danny said, and spun towards the door.

When the door opened again, Martin was shoved through. Naked again, shivering, but seemingly unharmed. The door slammed behind him, and before Tim could think better of it, he’d rushed forward, folding Martin in his arms. To keep him safe, it was just to keep him safe. As he stepped back, Tim felt like his skin had become too tight. Like he was starting to become a monster too, and it was only a shroud that barely concealed what was underneath. What he wanted, what he’d take. Was that what Danny had planned all along? But it didn’t matter. He had to keep Martin safe. 

“Tim, what did he want? He said, I didn’t really understand, but he said you didn’t seem to want me, that he’d have to give me away, but he wanted to make sure. I’m really sorry, I know it’s hard, being here alone with just me, but I have some ideas…”

When Tim took his hand, Martin stopped speaking. Just stared, while Tim turned his hand over, and traced a cruel scratch across his palm that hadn’t been there before. Then he pressed his own hand against Martin’s, aligning the cut from the glass as best he could. Showing Martin—he didn’t even know. Martin shivered, and leaned closer. 

“He told me he’ll take you away if I don’t—” The words clamored in Tim’s throat. Love, use, fuck— “If I don’t play with you.” 

“Oh.” Martin met his eyes, then looked back at their hands. “ _Oh._ ” 

He flushed, and Tim hated how heat rushed to his cock, how appealing Martin was like this, naked and shy. Martin licked his lips, so they shone almost as much as Danny’s. Then he  
leaned in, and kissed Tim.

It was a brief, tentative thing. Clumsy, scared, uncertain. But determined, the same stubborn will that underlay all the stupid things Martin did. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Tim said. But he didn’t pull away. 

“Maybe I want to.” He kissed Tim again, tasting faintly of the crappy tea they’d had at breakfast.

And Tim’s blood ran cold.

“Stop doing this. Giving everything up for someone else, someone who treats you like shit and doesn’t even like you.” He tried to pull away, but somehow Martin had gotten a hand tangled in his shirt, and Tim didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. 

“You don’t know me as well as you think. I want this. I came with you, and I want this. Want you. Not like this, but you know, the world is ending, and I think maybe if we don’t—” 

Tim didn’t need to hear anymore. His lips were frantic against Martin’s, and Martin was just as eager, pressing hard and hot against Tim, hand creeping under his shirt to run fingers down his spine. He was shaking, but when Tim tried to pull back, to ask if he was okay, he pushed Tim onto the bed, and yanked off his shirt. 

They struggled, Tim trying not to think too hard, Martin still trembling. Eventually Martin ended up tucked against him, gasping as Tim pressed his lips to the mark on the back of Martin’s neck, dragged his tongue over the still inflamed flesh.

“Don’t stop,” Martin said, reaching back to tangle fingers in his hair, to hold him there. 

So Tim obliged, nipping at the threads, plucking them with his teeth as Martin moaned and shoved back against him. Was it some sort of magic? Or was it just the idea of it. Property, possession, belonging. He pulled Martin closer, and closed his eyes, and held on tight. 

When it was over, Martin turned in his arms, and buried his face in Tim’s chest. In the dark, Tim couldn’t see his face. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to see anymore. The feeling, it was enough. 

“If it had to be anyone, I’m glad it was you,” he said, cupping Tim’s cheek. 

Tim’s fingers found the back of Martin’s neck, and he traced the words there again. And tried to pretend he hated it. 

“You know, we never agreed on a name for that dog. Or what breed.”

“We should get a Newfie, and name her Keats.”

“I hate both those ideas. It’d shed everywhere, and you really need to branch out. And where the hell will we find the space in the London?”

“We could move to the countryside.”

Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes, and he was glad it was too dark for Martin to see. His fingers ran over the mark, following the letters like that would make them true.

“Yeah. Maybe we could.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Martin’s head, and inhaled the scent of slightly sweat damp hair. “No one we know there.”

Just strangers and monsters.


End file.
